


Untitled Torture Scene(s)

by heatdeath (aphelion)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Monster/Prompto Argentum, implied bad end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 20:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17086850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphelion/pseuds/heatdeath
Summary: there, there,ardyn murmurs, and strokes a hand down his back. but he knows he hasn't stopped smiling.





	Untitled Torture Scene(s)

**Author's Note:**

> this wasn't written to be posted, which is why the capitalization and formatting are weird, but because it can stand on its own, i decided to share it.
> 
> a kind-of-sort-of re-hash of a fic i started working on before the three first DLC were released, when i was trying to piece together what happened between prompto falling from the train and being found in zegnautus. i wrote this recently, so it's very different, but the spirit is the same. so consider this a consolation for the fic i'll never publish?

there's something to be said about repeat offenders. predictability offers a certain sort of comfort, doesn't it? ardyn might be odd, and he may be vague, and elusive, and infuriating, but when he appears before him like a mirage, he knows exactly what's going to happen. it doesn't matter how: he's going with him. it doesn't stop him from struggling, it doesn't stop ardyn from letting him think that he can, it doesn't stop him from grabbing for his gun only to find it's missing again, palms sweating despite the snow soaking through the toes of his boots. everyone has their limits. ardyn knows his are simple, human limits, regardless of whether or not he's human at all. he blacks out as a result of blunt force trauma and wakes up with deja vu. in a dark cell, shivering, lying on the gritty floor. his breath mists in front of his face. it's not as cold as it was the last time— that's the only difference that his tired brain registers. it's the only thing he can bring himself to consider. 

on the floor, he sleeps for a while. then he wakes up and notices the decor is different. dark, stained, concrete walls, rusted pipes, greasy with tarnish, furniture made out of some black metal. there are more cells on each side of the hallway he can see from where he lays, but the cells are empty. he rolls over, climbs onto his feet, and tries the door. unlike his last cell, it doesn't open at a touch. the bars rattle when he tugs on them, and he experiences a sinking dread he's become somewhat accustomed to in the last few days. he rests his head against the metal bars, rust smearing his forehead, before he steps away and peels out of his coat. he stashes it in a corner where it won't be easily found, wedged beneath one of the shelves set on either side of the room, and gingerly walks his away around the contraption in the center. then he sits down and waits.

nothing happens. after an hour, he's bored enough to stand and inspect his surroundings with some more attention to detail. the machine in the center is completely unfamiliar, but the tools on the shelves are normal enough. there are empty boxes that must have been full of supplies at one point, a rolling table, several assortments of tools, some with unknown uses. when he's done categorizing everything, he sits in the same place. but he doesn't have to wait that much longer to have his boredom lifted. 

when ardyn comes, he brings a smile. he's asking him how he likes the accommodations. he knows better than to answer, but ardyn keeps talking. you can forget anything that miss aranea said, he tells him, no one ever asked her to look for you. she figured it out herself, in fact. she's a sharp one, that aranea. and then he goes on: i'm sorry, but your friends are searching for the _crystal_. they just don't have the time for you and your little games anymore. prompto remains silent, as though he could find some strength in stoicism. arydn keeps smiling. but he leaves him alone for the rest of the day.

the day after, prompto wakes up with a boot in his side, nudging him from his cocoon of coat. it's not a kick. it doesn't hurt. doesn't leave a bruise. but he startles like it might, his eyes blown wide, mouth parted, chest rising and falling quickly, like a little mouse under the paw of a cat. ardyn laughs. _whatever could be the matter?_ he leaves a plate of noodles (the kind with cream sauce made with wine, expensive) and a glass of water on a table and leaves. he allows it to get cold before he eats it. reasoning with his hunger, telling himself that if ardyn wanted to hurt him, he would have done it. it never occurs to him that he might do it _just because_. but he doesn't violently upend the contents of his stomach, he doesn't even get a stomachache from the rich meal. things don't get tricky until he realizes he has to go to the bathroom. unless he wants to pee the the corner— 

he gives it three hours before he starts calling for ardyn, plaintive and unhappy as he stands with his hands wrapped around the bars. he shows up forty minutes after he starts, and he counts every one. ardyn is still smiling when he appears, and when prompto tells him his problem, he laughs like it's a joke. he reaches for the lock and releases it without a second thought, waving his arm, beckoning, calling him along. prompto follows with his eyes boring into his back, the patterned scarf burning itself into his sight. he can hear things when they move through the hallways, slithering, inhuman, distracting, and then they're in the next block. ardyn ushers him into one of the residential rooms and indicates the bathroom in the corner. so he scurries off to use it, washes his hands, and when he's finished, stands still in the doorway, hand hovering over the knob. when he finally turns it and steps out, it's to find ardyn standing too close. he takes him by the arm before he can shut the door in his face, his large hand tight around a pale, thin wrist. his palm covering the tattoo where his bracelets used to be. there's a pause, a smile, and then he asks, _would you like to get a shower while you have the chance? clean up?_ prompto nods, eventually. ardyn lets him go, leaves, and returns with a towel. soft and fluffy, but a bit stiff, and cold, like it's something someone hasn't used for a long time. prompto takes it from him, ducks his head, and closes the door again. 

it doesn't take him long to finish. when he steps out, he takes up the towel and dries himself as quickly as he can, rubbing the wetness from his body and hair. but when he looks up to grab his clothes, he finds they're missing. for a long few minutes, he stands shivering, the towel pulled tight around his body like a dusty old cloak. it takes him some time to reach for the door, to wrap his pruned fingers around the handle. he finds ardyn sitting on one of the beds when he does, his back turned toward him. _um—_ he says, and ardyn turns, sees him, and smiles again. your clothes are being washed, he tells him. when prompto continues to stand in the doorway, eyes round, silent, he adds, i don't have replacements. you'll have to make do. care for a blanket? yeah, sure, he'd like a blanket— he frowns, clenching his jaw, and ardyn stands up. he closes the door behind him, forcing him to step outside with only the towel wrapped around his body, and escorts him back to his cell. he can't bring himself to make his tongue and mouth form the words he would like to say, and there's a blanket waiting there when they return, his phone laying on top of it. shoulders hunched, shivering, he sets the phone aside and casts off the towel to wrap the blanket tight around his body. ardyn says, you're welcome, and prompto doesn't say anything.

when he wakes up the next day, he finds his clothes folded beside him, but he never gets the chance to put them on. ardyn says something about _getting started_ and picks him up by the arm, pushing him toward the machine in the center of the room. struggling, he asks him what he means, but it's no use. ardyn's still smiling, and he can't do a thing as his body is forced into the solid, metal jaws behind him, as his wrists are spread and suspended. the machine digs into his ribs and hips, biting down hard when he struggles. ardyn _tsks_ and tells him he's only hurting himself, but he does nothing to stop him from bruising his body on the framework. he lets him hang there until he's tired himself out, until his arms and legs have gone limp, bare chest rising and falling, skin pale all over, except where blotchy redness has raised to the surface. his face hot with embarrassment. ardyn touches the backs of his fingers to his cheek. _i've heard chief besithia isn't with us anymore, so i'll just have to carry on his work._

it isn't that bad, at first. ardyn hooks up a machine to his body with sticky little suckers on the ends and takes some readings. then he does a blood test, the prick of the needle painless. he checks his ears and eyes and throat, and then puts his hand between his legs and gets kicked for the attempt. he's laughing too hard to explain himself after, which doesn't take any of the sting out of it, but does leave him off kilter for long enough that ardyn can get his body nice and close. too close for him to extend his leg for a kick. his hand returns to where it was, his smile smug as he rolls his balls between his fingers. it's just a check-up, he says. unhappy as prompto is about it, at least it doesn't hurt. _at first_ , of course, only goes on for so long. once ardyn has recorded all of his vitals and taken all the test samples he cares to take, they move on. 

he doesn't notice when things change. ardyn leaves, and he doesn't come back. not just for hours. he leaves him through the night, all the way until next morning, his sides aching like they've been bitten into, his shoulders screaming with exhaustion from his weight pulling on the muscles for hours. there's no chance he could sleep. he hangs his head and breathes heavy, spit dripping from his lips, smeared down his front. when ardyn comes in the morning and lets him down, he can't hold himself upright. he lists into his arms, finds himself tolerating being held, tolerating the musty smell of old, moth-bitten clothes, tolerating being handled like a doll. he carries him to the bathroom and gives him some privacy before carrying him back to the cell, his fingers warm against his thigh, cheek lolling against a broad shoulder. _there, there,_ ardyn murmurs, and strokes a hand down his back. but he knows he hasn't stopped smiling.

when he wakes up later, he doesn't know how much time has passed, but ardyn is there. he strings him up like before, _tsks_ like he's done something wrong, and tells him, _you're really not the test subject i was hoping for, but you'll do in a pinch._ he picks up one of several plastic suction cups from the table beside him and squirts adhesive around the rim, sticks it to his left side, right below his pec. he does the same for the opposite side before adding two more lower down, two to each thigh, one to each bicep, one to each side of his chest, until each major muscle group is accounted for. then he attaches the end of each one to a wire, which is attached to a machine. it's different from the machine he used to read his vitals, a small square box with several buttons, but it isn't until he turns it on that he learns what it's for. he taps a button and his bicep jumps. he taps another button and the muscles in his thigh jump. he struggles, pressure rising around his throat, and asks him what he's doing. ardyn answers, _you see, chief besithia was always interested in what the line of lucis could do. i thought he might try to imbue his clones with their magic, or some facsimile. i could coax it out, if it's there._ he can't say much to that when the next jolt seizes up his entire arm. the next pulls his spine taut, curved, rubbing his body against the metal restraints where bruises have already formed. he gasps and chokes. gurgles when his spine refuses to relax and ardyn taps the next button. the room spins around him, his muscles writhing, snake-like, trying to escape his skin, sensations blurring into one great discomfort. he almost pukes. his thighs are wet by the time he finds the strength to peel open his eyes, the smell of ammonia strong in the air, ardyn's smile sour.

he leaves him like that. when he comes to, he finds himself on the bare concrete floor, naked, trembling. his breath mists in front of him, and he wonders where aranea is. does she know he's here? and then: where is he? he can't think about noctis. he can't think about ignis and gladio, who are searching for the crystal. he can't think about how they won't find him. it's surprisingly easy not to think, at least for a while. his head is buzzing like a beehive, and it feels like it has just as many holes, his thoughts pouring out slow and sluggish like honey. the room is dark, but he can see a light from the end of the hall. it seems to flicker. he tries to roll onto his back, but can't find the strength for it. his head is pounding. deep inside the tightness of his chest, he longs for snow and the bright, blinding light of day before his vision goes dark and unconsciousness claims him again.

then he's laying on a table. cold, metal, belly-down, goosebumps on every strip of flesh. he shivers. his arms are folded behind his back. when he tries to move them, he can't. when he tries to move his legs, he can't. he closes his eyes, opens them, and it's still dark. when he tries to pick up his head, he can't, but he can turn his neck. something cool and rough moves against his eyes. the pressure at the back of his head must be a knot. the fabric smells musty. the room smells like dust and animal droppings. there's an unfamiliar sound, a rhythmic sort of scraping, and something about it makes him struggle without knowing why. there's a ruffling then, like something large moving, and something soft brushes against his back. he hears ardyn's voice from somewhere overhead, saying, _well, we found out you have no magic to speak of, so i thought we might try something else. you should be proud for pioneering such areas of study, you know._ and then, not to him— _come on, come on, we don't have all day_ — a sharp _ping!_ rings out, followed by an animal scream that makes him flinch, loud and directly above him. wind kicks up, beating him on either side of his body, and the room is filled with a sickly sweet smell, like rotting flowers. something heavy settles over top him. something else shifts either side of his head, and he tries to crane his neck even though he can't see it. the heavy thing shifts, expanding and contracting, and then he experiences is a sudden, sharp pain between his thighs. he cries out, choking on his own spit, calling for ardyn, but the pain only increases. it lasts for a few minutes, and when it's done, his thighs are sticky wet. 

laying there, prompto listens to ardyn corral the creature and take it away. then he returns to him, placing a hand on the small of his back. he seems to comfort him, saying that he'll be gone for a while, that he can have some time to relax, his fingers slipping lower as he speaks, until his fingertips are sliding into the wetness between his asscheeks, easily slipping inside. he coughs and pulls on the tie fastening his wrists together, protesting as loudly as he can. but asking ardyn why he can't just leave him alone doesn't do anything more than make ardyn laugh again, like the whole thing is big practical joke. _if you haven't figured it out by now..._

what could all of this possibly be for? he's asking the wrong person for reasons. did ardyn need a reason to take a knife to lady lunafreya? did he need a reason to pretend to be him? there's a vision of flashing white teeth in his mind, lips pulled back in hate. it seems like it happened a very long time ago.

and then he wakes up in the cell, dressed in clean clothes again. his shoulders itch, and his throat feels thick from the musty air, but the silence is palpable, the way the sound is so different from underwater than above it. the door is open when he stands to call for ardyn, so he makes his way to the bathroom himself. he doesn't look at himself in the mirror while he cleans up, although he finds there's not much mess, except for the bruises, which can't be scrubbed away. he spends the rest of the day laying in the bed closest to the bathroom door, sleeping on and off, trying to decide whether or not this is a test, and then deciding that it doesn't matter if it is, because ardyn will do whatever he wants to him no matter what he does. a thin sheet isn't much consolation, but it's better than the floor. the next day, he finds his bruises darkened, almost black, and sticky in places. he scours the room for salve and finds some old antibiotic, applies it, and slaps a bandage over the mess before going back to sleep. 

when he wakes up, the room is dark, and he's arrested by an odd sensation. he itches all over. there are little bumps, hard in some places, like a rash across his skin. other bruises have darkened, so he applies salve to those too, his hands shaking. he takes a shower, and then takes another shower, and finds flakes of something stuck in the drain, thin strands not unlike hair, and soft, small, downy feathers. he picks at them a while, crouched in the bottom of the shower stall, before he dries off and covers himself with a fresh blanket, stolen from another bed.


End file.
